Chapter 17
Smoke was hazy in the air as I lurched into the hallway.
Muffin’s frantic barks and howls were now accompanied by the thump of his body hitting the kitchen door over and over as he tried to escape.
Charlemagne’s yowls were constant but, I realized, not solitary.
Gwendolyn was crying, shrilly and wordlessly trying to make Charlemagne leave her alone.
He had attached himself to her arm, blood dripping from the punctures of his claws and teeth.
“You are disgusting goblin,” she shrieked at him. “I should have killed you first!”
“Leave him alone!” I grabbed the nearest object—a beautiful Tiffany style table lamp with a heavy base—and lifted it with my one good hand.
Charlemagne seemed to take this as encouragement, giving his head a shake that made Gwendolyn’s screams even more piercing.
“That fire was never going to be enough to kill me,” I shouted over the din. “What are you doing?”
“You think that was all the fuel I brought? I’m not an idiot,” she snapped wetly.
The screaming alarm, the cat, her sobs, Muffin’s frantic escape attempts, were all momentarily silenced by the keening cry of an emergency services siren.
Someone had called the cops.
I’d never been so happy to have neighbors as in that moment. “Talk to me,” I urged. “Before they come in here. Maybe I can help you.”
“Oh my god,” Gwendolyn groaned. “Do you really believe you’re one of your characters, Damien? Some heart of gold boy next door with bland good looks who can turn the world around with the power of caring?”
I blinked, rocking back on my heels as the sirens pulled into the drive and up onto the yard. Ben was going to lose his mind about that—he’d just had those bulbs planted. “No,” I said simply. “I’m just not a murdering asshole.”
Charlemagne held fast until I unlocked the door to let the police in. Heath, Cherry, a deputy I didn’t recognize and some people in office wear poured into the foyer. “She’s over here,” I sighed, everything hurting. “Be careful, she’s bleeding.”
Heath peeled away to stand in front me. “Damien, Christ...”
“No, it’s Damien Murphy,” I said, the swimmy woozy feeling in my head starting to spread down my neck and into my stomach.
Heath let out a shaky laugh. “What the hell is happening here? I was at the inn when Cherry took a call from one of your neighbors about a woman screaming. The MCU folks were down to pick up evidence and...” he trailed off. “You don’t look good.”
“Just what a boy wants to hear,” I slurred, leaning forward as my eyes closed and everything felt too heavy, too fast, and too loud all at once.
#
THE COUNTY HOSPITAL perched at the top of Malm's Corner like a Brutalist guardian, the bulky gray shape a blot on the gentle rise of pine and oak. It also had really good drugs.
"You're very pretty, you know that?"
Heath cleared his throat. "You've said so twice now."
"Well, you are. I can see why Ben dated you. You're so pretty. And nice. And you smell good too. Usually. Not today though. Today you kinda reek like burned coffee."
Heath sighed in relief as the nurse bustled in, ready to take my vitals again. "Okay, Mr. Murphy, Doctor Martin will be along in a few minutes to go over your x-rays with you and talk about what comes next."
"I hope it's pie. I love pie. I haven't had pie in a long time. Do you think I can convince Ben the tea shop needs to sell pie?"
The nurse exchanged a look with Heath that I couldn't decipher. "I'll make sure they dial back on the fun stuff next med check," she said.
Boo.
Heath followed the nurse out and I was lone in a curtained-off booth, something old playing on the t.v.
suspended over the foot of the bed. The sound was off but that was okay, I was too busy having loud thoughts.
“Pamela Sommers killed Beth Ellison. And Gerald Tubbs. I think... I think both were accidental. But the fire... she set the fire on purpose. The one at Beth’s house.
She wanted to hide what she’d done. Why didn’t she burn Tubbs then? Why...” I yawned, swimmy and floaty.
“Try to get some rest, Damien,” Heath urged, his hand on my arm. It was warm and heavy and comforting, but I was low key annoyed. “Gwendolyn Terhune told the MCU everything.”
I shook my head carefully—I'd learned my lesson earlier when I tried to do it at normal speed and ended up vomiting all over a nice CNA named Amber who was pretty much done for the day after that. "Don’t brush me off, Heath. Not now.”
Heath sat on the plastic chair beside my bed, sighing as he tried to perch comfortably. "She confessed to attempted murder and to the murder of Gerald Tubbs Junior. She's claiming self-defense but clammed up on advice from her attorney via a phone call."
"She didn’t kill him. It was Pamela Sommers. But I think it was an accident. The video—”
“Ben called. He’s on his way back. Probably getting a dozen speeding tickets in the process. He sent the file to one of the departments in LA, where Beth died. It’s in their jurisdiction so it’s up to them what happens with Ms. Sommers. But Ms. Terhune is adamant she killed Tubbs.”
"She’s lying. It’s on the video.”
“That,” he sighed, “you’ll have to take up with the MCU. They’ve taken jurisdiction now.”
“Jesus,” I muttered. “Don’t you care that Gwendolyn is lying? What about Anmorata? What—”
“Damien, calm down. You need rest.”
“Oh, go to hell,” I muttered, sleep heavier than my outrage.
Heath left for a while again, and I drifted, not quite asleep but nowhere near awake.
After a bit, and one more IV check, someone came to sit beside me in the dimly lit ward.
It must still be night, I thought, because earlier all of the lights had been on and now they weren't. I must have asked about that out loud because someone answered me.
"Just past eight." A pause, then, “In the morning.”
"Ben?" I asked, trying to open my eyes and finding them too heavy to open fully. "What day is it? And can you read minds?"
"Thursday," he said quietly. "And you were talking out loud. Your filter's even worse than usual," he added with a small, tired smile. "Heath called to let me know what was going on and I headed out immediately."
Tears pricked my eyes and I moaned softly. "Oh, you didn't have to! Ben, you're gonna get yelled at."
He chuffed softly. "I told you—I've got a lot of banked PTO. Besides, they can't fire me—no one else knows how to get the databases to cooperate."
I grunted, closing my eyes again. When I opened them, it was still Thursday but later, brighter, and Ben was gone.
His satchel was on the chair beside my bed and a CNA with cotton candy colored hair and so many pins and stickers on his badge and lanyard was checking my telemetry.
"You stopped giving me the good stuff. I can tell because everything hurts and life sucks. "
He smiled. "Sounds about right. There's some people out there who want to talk to you but hospital policy says one guest at a time. Any preference for who we send in first?"
"Um. What're my choices?"
His smile grew. "Hot and blond, hot and brunet. Both grumpy but blond is in uniform and grumpy is in a suit."
"Send in the grumpy one. Dealer’s choice," I said, my grin forced but apparently passing muster because the CNA gave me a thumbs up and a wink before heading out of my little curtained off area.
A few minutes later, or maybe longer—time was like syrup at the moment—Heath appeared.
Unshaven, eyes dark-circled and reddened, he looked like crap and I said as much as soon as he stood close to the bed.
“Thanks. I’ll be sure to write that in my diary.”
“Silly Heath. No one keeps diaries anymore. Too easy to read.” My thoughts swam for a long, pleasant moments before I refocused on his harried, tired face. “What’s happening now? Why are you here? Did I do something bad?”
He sighed, heavy and tired. “Pamela Sommers is missing. She’s not at the inn and no one had eyes on her after the call came in about the fire at Witte House last night. She seized the moment and ran for it, from the looks of things.”
“She had a flight scheduled for this morning.”
“There’s a team in LA that’ll keep an eye out for her but it’s not likely she got on it.”
“What about Gwendolyn?”
“In holding. She’ll be released on a huge bond later today, ordered not to leave the state.”
“And Nate?”
He shook his head. “He’s free and clear. He had nothing to do with any of this. At least not as far as we can tell. It’s early days yet.”
A soft knock fell on the door, followed by the bustle of a tech entering with a wheelchair. “Mr. Murphy, time for that CT scan for the ol’ brain pan. Sorry, Heath, I gotta take your friend here for a bit.”
“It’s fine, Sylvie. Damien, I’ll talk to you later.”
I just nodded, my headache throbbing in time with my pulse.